


Crucible Carmine

by orphan_account



Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: F/F, au-ish, or possibly pre-canon?, zombies date
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 23:40:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Maxine understands she is quite illogically holding a rather extended conversation with a generally unresponsive audience, she just can't help herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crucible Carmine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thewondersmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewondersmith/gifts).



> In response to [this](http://zombiesrunfic.livejournal.com/991.html?thread=1247#t1247) prompt over yonder at the [Zombies, Run! Kink Meme](http://zombiesrunfic.livejournal.com/).

“Hi,” Maxine says with the appropriate amount of confidence for a young woman in her situation (which is not say, not much at all). “I’m--it’s Myers. Maxine Myers. Remember me?”

Her reflection looks her in the eye for a count of one entire second before her gaze drops nervously to a spot on her own shoulder where the fabric of her cardigan is stretched a bit thin over this anatomically legitimate, but nevertheless infuriating, muscle mass that’s developed from these last few months on her uni’s intramural lacrosse team. The half-hearted butch look is definitely not working. _This_ \--the straightened hair, the scratchy Anne Klein slacks, the spot of foundation that the nice (though slightly overbearing) girl at the MAC counter matched her with earlier that day--is all not working. 

“Oh, _God_ ,” she says, despairing for just the appropriate amount of time (five seconds in this case) before shaking it out. “No. No, Max, you’re fine. You are--presentable, and a damn good conversationalist to boot. This will be absolutely amazing.”

She tries again, smiling and addressing her reflection: “Hi! I’m Max. Maxi. Maxine. Myers. Doctor? Oh, no, not yet. I’ve still got a few years to go. Unlike _you_ , you--you prodigy, you.”

Like a brave little trooper, her reflection continues to smile until the expression becomes forced, then strained, before finally collapsing into a frown and a groan as Maxine slaps a hand to her forehead. She turns away from the mirror and curls her toes in the carpet of her bedroom, what little of it that isn’t covered by tried and rejected costumes for the night, in an attempt to stay grounded as a faint tide of nausea looms over her.

“What _am_ I doing?”

Buddy, stirring from his spot by her pillow, tilts his head at her and utters a curious, but completely unhelpful, “Aroo?”

The sound Maxine makes in response can very nearly be described as a wail. She throws herself down onto her sheets, crumpling the neatly ironed edges of her carefully composed outfit. Buddy says, “Aroo.”

“Oh, I _know_.” She scratches at his ears obligingly, effectively keeping his interest for the time being. “I’m acting like a child, I know. I’m just so damn excited, and Paula is just so--she’s brilliant, Buddy. Did you know she was graduated with her doctorate and interning with the government at my age? Of course you know. I’ve told you.”

Buddy nods, either in rapt agreement or reapproaching drowsiness.

“Yes, well, this will be the very first time we meet without professional ties. Not that I had been working for her, or with her, or--that would just make this inappropriate, wouldn’t it, and this isn’t. This is perfectly normal. This is--.” She pauses. Buddy waits with baited breath, then yawns. “--a monumentally bad idea.”

Perhaps disappointed, Buddy sets his head down in his paws.

Maxine cringes. “Yes, yes. I was meant to keep a confident, positive attitude tonight--but you know what she’s doing right now? Pinpointing the exact color of crafts paint that causes cancer in rats. She’ll save countless children from horrible fates. What am I doing, you ask?”

Buddy doesn’t ask.

“I’m spending the entire summer _lounging_ about like a complete loser in my parents’ house, catching up on leisure reading and watching bad soap operas with my mom. _Leisure_ , Buddy. Leisure, while Paula saves the world. I don’t deserve this.”

Buddy lifts his head, expression devastatingly mournful, when her hand goes still against his fur. He whines.

“I _know_. I know. This isn’t like me. I’m not usually this way, you know that, but none of this is _usual_. In what lifetime do _I_ get to interview Paula Cohen for a research paper, and in what dimension does she schedule a date night with _me_?”

Buddy says, “A _roo_.”

Maxine starts up the scratching again, as though on command. “Yes, well, I know all signs point to _this one_ being the answer, but this certainly won’t be the reality in which I don’t make a complete fool of myself the second I open my mouth in front of her tonight.”

It’s then that, despite her soothing and deviously solicited pats, Buddy hauls himself up and hops off of her bed to trot right out of her room. Maxine sits up and blinks through the gap in her door at the hallway, empty after the pup removes himself from her presence entirely.

“Oh,” she says.

In her periphery, her reflection sidles into the glass of the mirror once more. The light snags on the set of her jaw and, sans an audience, she takes the time to look her determination in the eye. Buddy would never abandon a reasonable person, and while her nerves were in no uncertain terms _reasonable_ , the extent they evolved to over the past several moments was perhaps not entirely called for.

Ever so slightly unreasonable.

After a slow, meditative breath and as a woman a reason, she stands to face herself once more.

“Hi,” she says a third time. “It’s Maxine.”

She scrunches her face up tight, then relaxes. She spends a moment feeling indubitably silly for feeling quite so low and another mulling over a list of potential conversation starters (hope the weather’s been better, thank you for your time last year with that interview, how’re the rats holding up?) as suggested to her by an aunt over Sunday mimosas at an intensely awkward family brunch. Then she ties her hair back because Paula seems every bit as reasonable as herself and most likely won’t hold any strange prejudices against ponytails.

Behind her, her fifteen-pound laptop from the early twenty-first century chimes. As she settles into her desk chair, her throat goes almost unbearably dry. All confidence aside, the pop-up box alerting her to a call from her academic idol (and potential, dare she think it, _girlfriend_ ) makes the back of her neck tingle in the best and worst ways all at once. And all nerves aside, she accepts the call with a giddiness that’s as contained as could be in these circumstances.

These circumstances being, Maxine allows herself to think, a proper, romantic-as-fuck internet date with the flawless Dr Paula Cohen.

“Hi,” she says, sounding only moderately breathless, and stops.

Before Maxine can work herself into another fit over the proper introduction, Paula smiles. It’s slightly pixelated, and absolutely perfect with teeth and charm and every bit of feeling hammering away in Maxine’s chest.

“Hello, darling.”


End file.
